see how
he should like that. He kept thinking of this as he walked by her side,
while she moved forward with her light, graceful dignity. He had sat
with her before; he had driven with her; but he had never walked with
her.

"By Jove, how comme il faut she is!" he said, as he observed her
sidewise. When they reached the cottage in the orchard she passed into
the gate without asking him to follow; but she turned round, as he stood
there, to bid him good-night.

"I asked you a question the other night which you never answered," he
said. "Have you sent off that document--liberating yourself?"

She hesitated for a single moment--very naturally. Then, "Yes," she
said, simply.

He turned away; he wondered whether that would do for his lie. But he
saw her again that evening, for the Baroness reappeared at her uncle's.
He had little talk with her, however; two gentlemen had driven out from
Boston, in a buggy, to call upon Mr. Wentworth and his daughters,
and Madame Munster was an object of absorbing interest to both of the
visitors. One of them, indeed, said nothing to her; he only sat and
watched with intense gravity, and leaned forward solemnly, presenting
his ear (a very large one), as if he were deaf, whenever she dropped
an observation. He had evidently been impressed with the idea of her
misfortunes and reverses: he never smiled. His companion adopted a
lighter, easier style; sat as near as possible to Madame Munster;
attempted to draw her out, and proposed every few moments a new topic
of conversation. Eugenia was less vividly responsive than usual and
had less to say than, from her brilliant reputation, her interlocutor
expected, upon the relative merits of European and American
institutions; but she was inaccessible to Robert Acton, who roamed about
the piazza with his hands in his pockets, listening for the grating
sound of the buggy from Boston, as it should be brought round to the
side-door. But he listened in vain, and at last he lost patience. His
sister came to him and begged him to take her home, and he presently
went off with her. Eugenia observed him leaving the house with Lizzie;
in her present mood the fact seemed a contribution to her irritated
conviction that he had several precious qualities. "Even that mal-elevee
little girl," she reflected, "makes him do what she wishes."

She had been sitting just within one of the long windows that opened
upon the piazza; but very soon after Acton had gone away